


patchwork

by motorboats



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this for me but you can read it too, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 18:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30093441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorboats/pseuds/motorboats
Summary: There's a Cayde-shaped hole in their lives and Zavala isn't certain how to fill it.
Relationships: Cayde-6/Ikora Rey/Zavala, Ikora Rey/Zavala
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	patchwork

**Author's Note:**

> i have been obsessed with cayde/ikora/zavala ever since the kargen mission and i'm here to make it everyone's fucking problem

Ikora takes the evening shifts, Zavala takes the morning shifts and others help where they can, where able. There’s a gap in the scheduling from 22:30 to 06:30 every day and Zavala feels it like the loss of a limb months afterward, even when others step in to fill it. 

Vanguard vigils were broken into eight hour shifts on Earth, each division taking a separate chunk of time. With one Vanguard down, they split the main hours out of necessity and allow for Saint-14, or Shaxx, or one of the others to pick up where they must leave off. Before _everything_ , they worked six hour shifts, allowing for two hours of overlap between time off to see each other even during the busiest days. 

It’s long past when he anticipated being home, but an insinuated assassination does tend to make the rest of the day get dragged out into bureaucracy. He files all of the required forms, gives his statements and by the end of the day he’s not going to be felled by a gilded dagger or a Psion’s beam, it’s going to be hunger or frustration.

Even the walk through the gardens isn’t enough to settle him; Targe feeds him the confirmation that Shaxx is handling operations from the Tower for the next twelve hours to allow him time away. 

“Eating generally helps nerves,” Targe says helpfully, one of the lightest versions of his reminders to do basic tasks like eating and sleeping. 

“Nerves,” Zavala repeats dryly, as if that’s the largest of his issues. He takes the shortcut through the gardens down the stone path, up the staircase on the outer side of the wall, boosting up a few jumps to expedite the process. A solid thud as his boots connect, and then he’s on the landing, casually winding around the corner to head home. 

Inside the door Ikora’s warlock boots are on the mat, but her other boots aren’t which means she’s gone out. It’s possible she’s been dragged into the same paperwork mess that he found himself in after returning, or a variant of it; Ophichus has been silent in response to Targe’s inquiries. “Let me know if she checks in.” 

Targe inclines and vanishes from sight as Zavala double checks both locks and then sweeps the living space and bedroom in conjunction with Targe’s scan. “Clear.” 

The second sweep takes more time, double checking weapons, sweeping for listening devices, doing all the same checks Targe does the moment they make it indoors, but once it’s done he relaxes the few inches and dares to settle in. 

Zavala gets as far as showering, setting a load of laundry on, wiping down the already immaculate counters when Ikora arrives, just moments after Targe’s quiet, _she’s home._ The kettle begins its slow boil behind him and he takes two steps into the hallway to lean against the door jamb, watching her enter. 

Immaculate presentation has always been one of Ikora’s traits, but it’s rare he gets the pleasure of seeing her outside of warlock robes and armor. 

“You look comfortable,” Zavala swallows the words down before he goes any further, abruptly feeling ridiculous. Everything feels like a minefield, every attempted compliment, every broached subject. He’s not Cayde, he can’t give her a once-over that from anyone else would be a leer, but on Cayde was a charming tease. Still. He tries. “The jacket— it’s nice.” 

From the raised eyebrow she gives him after settling down the bags, the attempt is noted, which is about as good as he could expect. “New, yes. Saint and Shaxx relieved me for the day. I took care of errands.” 

While she’s undoing her boots he crouches and gathers up the takeout, bringing it to the table. The restaurant is the Greek one in the second district, just off the stop by the Crucible, which means he can trace her day by habit alone. Her Hidden were on missions, she was trapped in the Tower while he was out; word came back about the stand-off and she was whisked off to safety. Only once the threat was determined to be false or over, she would be allowed back into the city. Protected, until they could confirm that Zavala would survive so they didn’t risk losing the whole Vanguard at once. He would be frustrated in her position too. “How are they?” 

“Loud,” Ikora finishes unlacing the boots and pads into the kitchen after him. It’s unclear if she means the owners of the restaurant and their family, or Saint and Shaxx, or both. “All three of the children were at the restaurant. Lyra’s looking better.” 

“I’m glad. Holliday asked after them, earlier.” The soft gray and purple of her jacket _do_ look good, especially combined with the thick, gray fuzzy socks that she’s wearing, tugged up to her knees. Cayde would— 

She’s distracting without intending to be; it’s only after she’s paused a moment waiting for his response that he realizes he’s been silent too long, admiring her. Ikora looks, for lack of a better word, cozy. Approachable. 

“Good,” Zavala says unnecessarily, and starts tugging the tiny bows loose from the takeout bags, holding one very delicately with one hand before he pinches it and tugs loose with the other. “The water should be done soon.” 

“Chamomile?” Ikora pulls two mugs from the cabinets while Zavala keeps unloading the bags, the clink of glass lingering at two. Zavala exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I thought we could eat together.” 

“Please. I hope you were able to take some time to yourself today.” One container contains his favorite, another few boxes have their favorite appetizers. He settles her meal at her spot at the table and pops open the take out containers for all shared items to settle them in the center. 

Embarrassingly, it takes longer than he’d like to find the napkins. He can’t remember the last time they took a meal together, the last time they had the _time_ to take a meal together. Of course it would take a near-death experience to have the ability to do something as simple as dinner. “Did you attend Crucible matches?” 

It’s as close to a discussion topic related to the Tower, to the Traveler as they’ll allow during these hours. Cayde’s moratorium on work talk at home existed long past his life. Even broaching the subject is a risk, a gamble Cayde would be proud of, maybe. Ikora laughs quietly as she comes back into the kitchen with two steaming mugs, seamlessly angling around him to settle them on to the table. “At Lord Shaxx’s suggestion. Stasis users, at mine.” 

Of course. Too easy to fight guardians on a level playing field; Ikora had wanted a challenge. Wanted to lose, maybe. Zavala asks Targe to pull the Crucible records for the day and gathers up all of the trash from the takeout, bundling it into a bag to toss later. “I’ll read the reports later tonight.” 

That was a misstep. He’s not sure how or why, but Ikora shutters, just a touch. She settles in with her tea, and her posture is perfect, but he knows her. Knows when he’s made a mistake with her more often than he knows what the actual mistake is. “Thank you for bringing home dinner. We were not able to—” 

“I know. Even if Empress Caiatl had offered you food, Osiris would have a fit if you attempted to eat it.” Ikora unfolds a piece of bread and starts layering it with sauces and vegetables, scanning the results of what she’s brought back to make certain everything requested is there. It passes muster, because she reaches across and steals a skewer of meat for her plate.

It is, Zavala supposes, very convenient that she waited until he had fully gotten home: swept the room, changed into pajamas, started tea, all the signs that he had no intention of leaving. Smart. He’s not entirely certain that he wouldn’t have just left to get food if she’d been here. There’s a fracture between them and he _knows_ it’s there, but knowing means absolutely nothing if he can’t _fix_ it. 

“Thank you for braving both the traffic and the triplets,” Zavala says gravely and wins another ghost of a smile out of her which is better than nothing. 

Then, there’s silence. 

He has a thousand questions he could ask her. Meaningless subjects, anything but relating to the Traveler, which lately wasn’t a remarkably diverse set of tasks or subjects, but _still._ He could, he should but when he reaches for the words all he can consider are the conversations they need to have before this one. The topics they avoid like a minefield between them but at some point there will be too many to ever broach the subject.

He’ll schedule a meeting for it instead. 

“Zavala.” Ikora is, as always, the braver of the two of them. He lifts his head and meets her eyes, not certain what to expect at this point. “I think we both agree there was very little chance Empress Caiatl would assassinate you at a scheduled meeting, but I reviewed Targe’s footage. I—”

Zavala watches as her expression goes from polite to frustrated and stomps down the uncharitable sense of victory that comes from it. 

“This is the closest we’ve come in years,” Ikora says after a moment of consideration, and slides a hand across the table to cover his, her thumb running along the line from his thumb to the tip of his index finger. “‘Barely any’ is still a risk. I believed we were cautious sending Osiris with you and now realize we risked not one but both of you. I had to sit with Amanda on a ship as I had this realization.” 

They had taken it seriously, then. Flown her out of the city in case of an attack. Good. They weren’t allowed to know the other’s escapes in case of capture and it would change after this to ensure there wasn’t any compromise but the confirmation of her safety is a relief.

“For what it is worth, I do believe she wants a version of peace,” Zavala settles on, skirting as close to work as he dares. His hand turns and he laces their fingers together loosely for a moment, squeezing. “It is...unfortunate our versions of peace are not compatible.” 

He wasn’t entirely convinced of that; they still had a planet and the Cabal provings had shown that they couldn’t hold their own against exploratory guardian might, let alone the full force. There would still be losses, but there was certainty in victory in the results of the battlegrounds. The Cabal were too scattered; they needed the Vanguard more than the Vanguard needed them currently, but very soon they would both need each other. 

“Even avoiding the subject we can’t help it,” Ikora says out of nowhere and this time there’s no humor to her tone, the grip on his fingers slipping away as she goes back to picking at her meal. “Cayde would… he would tease us. For spending so much time dancing around the subject taking longer than if we actually just discussed it and moved onto better topics.” 

“Cayde,” They still said his name the same, like they were saying it just to prove they could, one firm syllable, like a challenge. Each time it hurt a little less and a little more in a different way. “Always wanted to pull the bandage off but would complain the whole time.” 

“He would.” Ikora laughs into her tea quietly, eyes closed. Her next words come out as apology and accusation in equal measure. “I don’t know how to say his name and not be angry at you. I want to talk about him eventually, but I… not yet. I’m not ready.” 

“I know.” Zavala eats because it’s a necessity, because it provides something to do with his hands and body outside sitting here and dwelling on the ache inside his chest that throbbed with each breath. “I’m not...certain how to have it either.” 

It _aches_ , it’s the worst fucking thing he’s felt in so many years and he’s lived so long, he’s felt so much and it hurts like _nothing else_. This unspecified, ugly monstrous thing in his chest that curls itself around him night or day and digs its barbs in when he’s least expecting it. He’s experienced grief before plenty of times, he’s lost more than he has saved but that was most guardians. They were well acquainted with loss in a way no others were. 

The loss of Cayde was different, though, in every conceivable, possible way. 

Neither of them were ready to have the conversation about how wrong everything had gone, the difference in opinion about operations, about execution, because there has been no time. Because the end result of the discussion doesn’t matter. 

The end result of the discussion would be like lancing a boil, but there was no danger that they would ever agree on the outcome. They didn’t have the bandwidth to send guardians after Uldren Sov and they were _guardians_ , not political assassins. He and Ikora would not see eye to eye on this; they haven’t for years and the loss of Cayde sharpened everything to a painful point. 

To an extent, there was no need to discuss it. They would remain at these posts until someone more competent took over, or when one or both of them died their final deaths. Disagreements would linger, fester, but ultimately heal over until the next time they arose because there was no other option. 

“This isn’t fair to you,” Ikora says quietly, turning back to her food to do the same. They’ll move past it, they’ll go through the motions because there is no other choice. Zavala admires the practicality of it as she inhales, holds, and then exhales and meets his eyes. “There are subjects we should discuss regarding Osiris and the new light he found but they can wait until tomorrow.” 

Zavala’s lips lift of their own accord. “We have the whole evening?” 

“And morning,” Ikora confirms and takes a bite, both of them remarkably casual. “I’m afraid I have mostly forgotten what to do with a night off after someone attempts to murder me.” 

“I’m afraid I’m the one that’s forgotten how to handle it,” Zavala says wryly. “You attempt to murder them in return in Crucible.”

Ikora laughs quietly. 

They eat. 

It’s uncomfortable and comfortable in equal parts, sitting across from this person who knows him better than anyone else in the universe besides his ghost, and knowing they’ve never been further apart. Small talk isn’t forced but it isn’t easy either. Conversation is always the most difficult; action comes naturally. 

Takeout boxes are tucked away and they go through their nightly routine around each other like planets in orbit. He knows her nighttime routine intimately even if it’s been ages since he was around for it; they alternate between the sink and bathroom with ease, Ikora sliding past him with a gentle hand at the small of his back. Zavala settles all of the extra blankets and pillows on top of the chair next to the bed where Cayde used to sit to watch the city and monitor his hunters without waking them getting in and out of bed. 

Only once the bedroom is cleared and he has nothing else to distract him does he turn back to find Ikora standing by the bed, fingers pressed against the comforter gently. “We could always sleep,” Ikora offers like a kindness. “There aren’t expectations.” 

It is, he supposes, difficult to be intimate with someone you don’t always like or get along with. “I know.” 

It’s been months since they’ve done so much as kiss, and for a brief, ridiculous moment he’s afraid he’s forgotten how. When he feels rusty with his light or weapons, he trains. When he feels like the Tower walls are too stifling, he goes for a walk in the gardens. Everything requires care and maintenance, even relationships and he’s allowed this one to get to a point where he’s not certain how to care for it any longer. 

Ikora’s hands curl in the front of his sweater, tugging him down the last few inches until she’s able to kiss him. It’s awkward, it’s so awkward, he tilts his head the wrong way and hers the other and they have to adjust, Zavala’s lips landing against her cheek and the ridiculousness of it forces a laugh out of her that makes the next kiss and those after easier. 

He takes the same care with her clothes as he did with the delicate plastic bags wrapping their meals; Ikora has no such issue. When he slides her shirt off gently and deposits it on to the bed, Ikora’s hands are already working at the belt to his pants, flicking them open and loose and then hooking into the material of his sweater. The kiss is interrupted as she pulls it off and throws it across the room to land in a corner and any protests are swallowed up by another kiss, her hands framing his face. 

“We have all night,” Zavala steps out of his pants once they fall and settles onto the edge of the bed to watch her strip out of the rest of her clothing with single-minded efficiency. Ikora is beautiful no matter what but in the dim lighting of the bedroom and backlit by the city spanning out behind her she’s _gorgeous_. It seems a waste to end this so quickly. 

“I have plans,” Ikora nudges his knees apart with her own and steps in between them, winding her arms around the broad swells of his shoulders, her hands flat against the plane of his back. “Empress Caiatl demanded that you bow.” 

“Are we discussing work?” Zavala smooths his hands up from her hips to the small swell of her breasts, watching her shoulders hitch as his thumbs slide over her nipples gently. “I was there. I remember.” 

Ikora’s hand slides to cup the back of his head, tugging him forward and in and he fits his mouth around a nipple using teeth and tongue as easily as he wields rifles and shields. 

“She would have you bow,” Ikora murmurs, petting down the line of his spine, dragging her fingers down his back when he adds a touch of teeth, the sweep of a tongue. “I would have you kneel.” 

It’s remarkably easy to go to his knees for her.

Ikora takes two steps back and Zavala sinks to his knees, arms behind his back at parade rest, spine straight. The smile that curves her lips is endlessly pleased, knuckles stroking over his cheekbone, the line of his jaw affectionately. It’s the first time she’s touched him like this in months and her smile widens when he’s caught leaning into it, chasing the pressure of her fingers. 

He keeps kneeling while she moves around the bedroom, finding where the lubricant is stashed and then tugs open the closet again to pull a few items out. There’s nothing required of him like this; he just has to kneel here and wait for what she will give him. No decisions, no life or death, just the firm steady presence of Ikora’s light and the guidance of her hand as she arranges him so he can lean on the bed if he needs to. 

“Here.” Ikora’s voice from behind him, then the pressure of her hand in his, drizzling cold liquid against his fingers, guiding them back. Zavala drags in a heavy, slow breath and drops a hand down between his legs, giving his cock a slow stroke and then presses further, easing one and then two fingers inside himself, slowly while Ikora works. There’s the sound of a buckle and harness fastening behind him and then her hand slides down his spine, over the swell of his ass where he’s two fingers deep. 

This part takes managing, too. Their legs jumble; Cayde isn’t here to give a show to meaning they don’t bother with the bed which would be gentler, but is too soft to provide stability during this. Ikora settles a hand at his back and stills him until she can go to her knees behind him and nudge his legs apart. 

The guiding hand at the small of his back goes from a press of fingers to the full spread of her palm against him and when he withdraws the wet tip of her toy pushes, catches against his hole and slides home. Ikora’s body curves against his, arms winding around his torso gently. He feels caught in a way that’s secure rather than threatening, the press of her lips against the nape of his neck and shoulders soothing in contrast to the stretch and ache of her cock inside him. 

It is, of course, good. They’ve been together too long for them to not know each other inside and out, to know the spots to push and press and kiss to wring out reactions, the places to avoid for comfort. Even the ache of it is good, the slow steady stroke of her hips gradually growing as they remember how to move against each other, with each other. Better than the last attempt, all sharp edges and sharper words where the sex had been a battle they were fighting against each other rather than with. 

Zavala exhales slowly, relaxing against the bed, bracing his arm against it so when he rolls his weight back into her thrust it’s controlled, fucking himself back and down onto her cock with a noise that’s almost a groan if he gave it enough breath. “Harder.” 

He can feel Ikora’s smile where her lips press against his shoulder. One of her hands slides low, curves itself around the wet line of his cock and strokes just as slow as she’s fucking him. “No.” 

Ikora pulls his orgasm from him as steadily and easily as she pulls the void from the light, shaping it to her desires. One hand becomes two against his cock and Ikora’s steady, shallow breathing picks up as they go. There are hands where he expects them and a lack of hands where he anticipates them; it’s quiet, just the two of them in here, no one speaking outside faint murmurs back and forth. 

Cayde would provide a running commentary. Talk about how good Zavala looked like this, fucked open on Ikora’s cock, about how well he takes it, how good he is for them. He’d have his hands all over Ikora, teasing her with flickers of light in lieu of his tongue, about how beautiful she is, about how much he adores her. He’d take them both to bed and threaten to eat crackers in bed with them afterward, just for the protests. Then, he’d wake up early to make them both coffee even as he complained about being up so early. 

Orgasm is a means to an end, the bow wrapping up the event to show it’s over rather than one event in a longer night with each other. Heat pools in his belly, one hand shifts its grip to go a little tighter while the other drops and cradles his balls gently, each thrust a firm snap at the end until he comes with a shivering breath over her fingers. Ikora withdraws moments later and leaves nothing but the slick ache behind, rising to her feet only the smallest bit unsteady with the toy bobbing between her legs. 

Cayde was always so touchy afterward. Wanted to be as close to both of them as possible, sprawled out on the bed like a cat in a sunbeam, complaining when one of them attempted to work when they could linger in bed and he could tempt them with the promise of more fooling around. 

Ikora presses a kiss to the top of his head and then moves to the bathroom, stripping off the toy, washing it with single-minded efficiency. Cleanup is perfunctory, a quick tidying and rinse in the shower followed by coming back into the bedroom to find Ikora’s already in bed, a hand between her thighs. 

“I could help,” Zavala offers, feeling foolish because he _wants_ to help, but isn’t certain Ikora wants that from him. This whole night had seemed less like sex for the intimacy of it, and more like she was reassuring herself he was still here and whole, unfocused on her own pleasure. The bed shifts under his weight and they do the same song and dance once more, all arms and elbows in the wrong area, trying to learn how to move with each other rather than against in the bedroom. 

“Come here.” Ikora tugs him close once more and throws a leg over both of his own, pulling him into a kiss that’s less reciprocated and more one that he takes from her, sliding a hand down between her thighs where she’s slick and hot against his hand. A single finger gets a shivered breath out of her, trembling and her own fingers work furiously between her legs in tight, firm circles, panting into the kiss. 

It’s less help and more that he’s just _there_ , a body, a hand, a mouth, another set of tools in her arsenal and that’s — that’s _unfair._ He knows it’s unfair, uncharitable. 

Ikora’s hips ride his hand a little faster and he presses kisses against bare skin, mouths over her nipples, gently and then with another touch of teeth when she shudders against him, hips jerking while she clenches around his finger and clenches her jaw so tight it’s a wonder he hears the noises she makes. 

Then, it’s done. It feels unceremonious; Ikora nudges his hand away before she gets over sensitive and rolls out of bed to go clean up. Zavala watches her go and when she comes back, she stretches out onto her side of the bed and reaches a hand across the distance between them and holds it while they fall asleep. 

* * *

  
  


Zavala wakes hyper aware of the way the room feels too large and too small at the same time, the yawning emptiness of the bed despite two occupants, the quiet of the room at all hours. 

In past time, another universe, maybe, if he’s being generous, just before his alarm goes off at 04:30, the weight of a third body eases into bed before shutting it off, cool metal fingers sliding over the line of his hip under the blanket.

Ikora curves her body a little closer in her sleep and reaches for Cayde-6 over the wall of Zavala’s chest. They would have two hours of overlap on either side when splitting shifts, snippets of time that they were able to steal for themselves once in a while. 

Now, there’s only one alarm at 05:30 and it’s rare there’s another body in the bed with him when he wakes. They functionally didn’t change anything with their relationship after they lost Cayde; both were too busy to see each other consistently before but it was worse after. Cayde was always the bridge that existed between them and now Zavala doesn’t know how best to try and cross the divide.

Cayde always complained the bed was too big, complained he had to stretch too far to cop a feel of one of them coming out of the shower, or to reach across to turn off someone’s alarm. Ikora would tease him, call him _needy_ , in that affectionate, mock-condescending tone that always got Cayde’s fans going. 

Zavala finds he agrees with Cayde’s bed assessment now, stretching across Ikora’s prone form to flick his alarm off. Once Targe confirms he’ll wake him on time, he sinks back into the warm spot on the bed and feels Ikora gravitate back toward his body. 

Cayde was, Cayde was. Maybe their biggest problem was lingering on ghosts instead of those left alive.

One long leg slides itself between both of Zavala’s own. Ikora curves against him and they bump knees near-painfully against each other trying to settle back into place. Cayde was better at sliding between the two of them, elbowing his way to comfort and allowing the others to settle in around him.

When he dips down to kiss her shoulder, he reaches the bruises he’d left last night. Void always means he can find the bruises he leaves by touch; her skin cools with its use but the bruises are heated, easy to find with his lips. Zavala kisses the purpling marks he’d left last night. He used to leave them for Cayde to find later: little bruises, bite marks and hickies for Cayde to discover after he complained so much about not having the ability to leave them on Ikora’s skin. _Gotta have you do my dirty work for me, big blue._

Now, Ikora exhales unsteadily at the kiss and rolls over, fitting herself to his front. Even half asleep the press of her against him stirs him but it’s easy enough to shove down in favor of lingering in bed, the scant few moments where they truly can be something edging on lazy. 

Zavala maps out a path from her shoulder blade to her lower back with all five fingertips, tracing lazy designs the whole way there. His fingers rasp across her skin where Cayde’s would have glided. It’s stupid. He knows how foolish it is but his traitorous mind can’t help the observation. The motion stops and his hand curls around her hip instead. They’re both awake and the room is too quiet. “I suppose I can look forward to everyone being in a good mood after Shaxx ends his shift.” 

Ikora presses her cheek into his bicep, and folds in close, shamelessly using the blanket as a buffer. 

“He does have a certain level of enthusiasm the other Guardians find encouraging,” she murmurs sleepily into his chest, folded in so completely it’s impossible to see her looking at the bed. Ikora’s not in need of protection, doesn’t need him to be a wall that protects her as well when she can hold her own but the thought exists there all the same. Cayde hadn’t needed protection, either, until he did. “Osiris… I appreciate his dedication, but I worry…” 

The hesitation is enough to give him pause. “You worry,” Zavala coaxes, already suspecting what he’s certain she’s going to confirm. So much for no work talk in bed. “You worry he will want to leave again? Even without Sagira?” 

“Yes. No. Just…” Her hand curls against his chest, knuckles beating out an unsteady rhythm. “He is here. I see him every day. Saint sees him just as frequently, and yet neither of us feel like he’s _actually_ with us. Not fully. A piece of himself left behind in the Infinite Forest, as Eris Morn left a piece of herself down in the pit. I worry he left too much behind. I had hoped time here would...ground him.” 

The thought is an uncomfortable one. They need all of the help they can get these days and Osiris is an asset; his experience both past and present has been invaluable so far and Ikora was right to recommend him to assist. He needed to feel useful and it was heavily suggested he stay rather than continuing to leave and risk a final death. Zavala doesn't think he'd take the ultimatum well either. “Would it be worthwhile to ask Saint-14 to speak with him?” 

The laugh that she lets out has no humor to it, just a puff of breath against his chest, her forehead resting over his heart. “No. He has tried. You know Osiris. Saint knows Osiris. His love of the unknown will always come first and Saint has...come as close as he can to accepting it.” 

Osiris and Ikora were similar in that measure, Zavala supposed. Both too curious and stubborn to want to deal with those who would stop them. “Then the issue is that we need him most here, not out there where he would rather be.” 

Ikora’s silence is answer enough and Zavala stares at the wall, trying to find the right words to say, shifting until he’s rolled onto his back. Ikora follows, fitted up against his side, curving an arm around his waist. It’s been weeks, _months_ since they’ve done this: laying here just to _be_ here, enjoying the quiet intimacy of the early morning light. Then, he opens his mouth and ruins it. “There are always sacrifices in war. Things we would rather be doing. We’ve lost too much, too _many_ Lights to risk—” 

The languid ease bleeds out of Ikora in a rush, her hand flattening against his side, then clenching into a fist as she levers herself up to look down at him. “You don’t need to speak to me about _sacrifice_ , or what we would rather be doing instead of—” 

“Ikora,” Zavala starts, apologetic, but it’s too little too late. Ikora’s already rising out of bed, bending over to pick up the stripped off clothing from earlier. “Ikora.” 

“No,” Ikora tugs on the loose pair of sweatpants she’d worn earlier, digging through their closet to pull out the first long-sleeved shirt she finds after pushing past Cayde’s clothing. Neither of them have had the heart to remove it. “Every thwarted attempt on the Traveler, on the City has been because the guardian left the City walls. Because they went out and took _action_ against the threats we face.” 

Anger isn’t an unfamiliar emotion; some days it feels like all he has left to give is anger. “What would you call the Battlegrounds? The strikes, the missions we send guardians out on every day?” 

“Stopping the bleeding.” Ikora stands over the edge of the bed, clothing wrapped around her like her armor and looks at him like she knows everything about him and still finds him wanting. “I’m aware this is not something we will agree on. You will manage your guardians and strikes as you see fit and I will manage my own the same.” 

_And we will hope it’s enough_. 

“We have nothing else to discuss,” Ikora gathers up her clothes and tosses them into the laundry basket, the conversation ends as unceremoniously as it began. All of the languid ease is gone from both of them. “Anything else we can go over in the morning meeting. Osiris and his new light Crow are eager to begin working.” 

“Understood.” Zavala could push. He could move the meeting, could rearrange his schedule and they could _talk_ , they could work through this together. 

This level of discontent, of disagreement wasn’t sustainable and to pretend it was would lead to disaster for all of them if they weren’t careful but no one has ever made Ikora Rey do something she did not want to do and Zavala is well aware that power is not one of the gifts the Traveler has given him. The bathroom door clicks closed, the shower turning on. Zavala allows himself a single moment to linger in bed, staring at the ceiling in frustration and then rolls out of bed to make their coffee. 

**Author's Note:**

> i just! i love it! i love the idea that you can love someone so wholly and completely and yet hate and be angry at them. ikora didn't talk to her ghost for yearrrrrrs! they're both massively flawed dumbass fucking people who wound up leading the resistance and i love them. zavala being a dumbass suggesting meetings instead of talking, and ikora picking and choosing her battles instead of fighting the ones she should fight. sex that's just kind of bad even if it's kind of good!!! being able to move around each other in the kitchen but not in bed. delicious. love to suffer. 
> 
> [this](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/records/a-play-of-shadow-and-light) lore specifically went for my knees. sagira warning them that osiris is in trouble. saint having to go to ikora to talk to her about him. osiris' general SITUATION this season, bro, i'm concerned about you like a lot. :( in this universe i imagine that ikora paired them together (osiris/zavala) because zavala's the best person she knows and will offset osiris but that didn't REALLY WORK instead it almost got them both killed. (in another au, dark osiris getting to zavala because he and ikora let shit fester.) there's so much! love to be emotionally devastated by bungo every day. 
> 
> anyway back to regularly scheduled cro14 hours after this or writing the fucky drifter/eris i need in my life thanks for reading!


End file.
